


And So He Goes

by V762CAS



Series: Veni, Vidi, Amavi [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: BROT3, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Gen, OG Team Tardis, PTSD, Pre-series one things, UST, series one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V762CAS/pseuds/V762CAS
Summary: Nine is left beaten and lost after the time war. A story about the gruff one with the blue eyes, and the places that moving on can take you.*Not a series one rewrite, but something parallel.*





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I love Nine so much. I think he's a beautiful and incredibly complex character, and while series one was great, it left me (and I gather, many others) wanting to see a lot more of him that I didn't get to, and I don't just mean wishing he'd take his jacket off more often. It then occurred to me that writing is a thing I can do, so that's what this is - my stab at trying to get more of Nine in the world, and how I imagine he'd have been if we'd spent more time with him. I'm also disgustingly behind Doctor/Rose in all its forms, and the Nine/Rose dynamic was so soft and untouchable. I want as much of that as I can get, even if I have to write it myself. SO THAT'S WHAT I'M GONNA DO, WELCOME TO THE RIDE
> 
> Updates as often as I get to, because I have a lot of other writing to do for /grades/. You didn't ask for advice, but I'm giving it anyway: unless you never want to sleep again, don't make writing your college major. I'm not even 20 yet but I feel like I haven't napped since 1973.

Two low thumps.

A clatter.

The squeak of tortured machinery, the sound of whooshing air—

“Doris!”

“Mm,” came a distracted hum of half-acknowledgement from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. It was quickly accompanied by a snapping noise and a very rude statement involving Jesus and a few choice disciples. 

Alistair huffed, reaching for the propped cane next to his armchair (upon which he’d been so comfortably dozing before the ruckus began). Anything that had Doris blaspheming was sure to be worth an investigation.

“What have you got in there that sounds like a car accident?” he called. It took no more than a peek around the door frame to answer his question. His wife was perched on the edge of a rickety dining chair, soldering iron held so tightly in her fist he was sure it’d suffocate if it were a living thing. The air conditioner that usually lived in their bedroom window had been relocated to the kitchen table and mercilessly gutted, appearing as though it were vomiting wires onto the makeshift work space.

“Those damned mice, Al. Why would they eat wire, of all things? Where’s the allure?” Doris grumbled, reaching into the tangled mass with her free hand. “I’ve half a mind to start laying out a little dinner plate so they’ll leave our appliances alone. Bloody thing barely works regularly, let alone when it’s been chewed on.” 

Alistair smiled fondly, pacing over to her and dropping a kiss beside the silvery bun on her head. “Well, all luck to you, love. I’m useless with machinery. Can just about get the lid off the jam.”

She snorted. “Machinery, he says. Maybe you’d learn to fix things ‘round here if you weren’t so busy running off every time UNIT gets the hiccups. What sort of man in his seventies-“

The ever-ongoing argument was cut off in its infancy as something large and heavy came crashing through the wall. Alastair didn’t have time to think, his body recalling years of training as he threw himself over to his wife, shielding her from the rubble and a strong spray of water as the whatever-it-was crashed through the pipes. 

He felt Doris gripping his shirt from beneath him and pulled back to assure her safety, running his hands over her face and arms. “You alright, love? Nothing broken?” She nodded, sitting up and shaking her head to try and fend off the panic-induced ringing in her ears. Alastair looked her over once more; she’d fallen from her chair in the shock and would likely be a bit sore, but otherwise her only injury seemed to be a small burn on her cheek - likely from an unfriendly encounter with the soldering iron on her way down.

“Al.” She breathed, tightening her grip on his shirt.

“Hmm?” He ran his fingers gently over the burn on her face. It wasn’t bad, but he’d feel better once they’d put some cream on it.

“Alastair.” Doris said firmly, and he looked up to meet her wide gaze only to find it focused over his shoulder. He turned his head slowly, mapping her stare around behind him until he was facing the object of her shock - an object that promptly had him collapsing onto his bum in surprise, narrowly missing Doris’s outstretched ankle.

Standing almost ominously in the space where his kitchen wall had once been, there stood a very familiar, very large police box.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair and Doris deal with the aftermath of the TARDIS crashing into their home, and are reunited with an old friend.

Alastair stood warily in front of the doors - doors that should have been a clean, friendly blue, but were covered in a thick layer of black… something. He reached forward, his fingers curling out to brush against the place where a white rectangular sign should have been. A shudder immediately ran through him, and he yanked his hand back, away from the burning hot surface. 

He stepped back, suddenly less sure about his original plan of fetching his key and barging right in.

“What’s is it, Al?” Doris whispered, moving behind him and placing a shaky hand on his elbow.

“It’s hot. Very hot. I’m not sure what’s wrong with it.” He nibbled at the pad of his thumb, looking at the place on top where a light should have been, but now only stood a spike of broken glass, or whatever it was actually made of. He experimentally hovered his fingers just above the door handle, feeling the heat radiating from it. 

“He’s got to be in there. How else would it have come here? Can’t fly itself, can it?” Her voice wavered. “We’ve got to go in, Al.”

He stood staring at the uncharacteristically dark windows of the TARDIS, more than worried about what he’d find inside. The Doctor’d never been a careful driver, but for him to crash through the walls of anyone’s home and not come bounding out to ensure everyone’s safety, let alone Alastair’s, was wildly unlike him.

“Doris,” he turned to face her, mind made up, “there’s a key inside the heel of my left uniform boot. Would you fetch it for me, please?”

When she returned, he was pacing back and forth, oven mitt on one hand and phone in the other.

“Who’s that?” She gestured to the phone, and he held up a hand to ask her patience.

“Aye. Just a small group, two or three should be fine. Oh, and make sure they’ve got heat resistant gloves of some kind.” He paused. “S’ a bit of an understatement.” He held out the mitted hand, and Doris looked at it for a moment before she understood what he wanted, reaching out her own hand and giving him the key. “Excellent. Thank you.”

“So?” She prodded the moment he ended the call.

“That was Warren. I asked him to send Dr. Paulson just in case, plus a team to help move the TARDIS somewhere out of the way. Lucky the Eriksons are out of town. This is quite a big mess to explain.” He nodded towards the gaping hole that had moved in, evicting four separate cabinets and the tomato plant he’d only just coaxed into blooming. C’est la vie. 

Doris shifted closer, looking up at the TARDIS and worrying her bottom lip. “I do hope this’ll be alright.”

“It will be. Stand back now, just in case. Can't know what's going on in there.” He squeezed her hand for a moment before letting it drop as she stepped back, shifting his focus to the blackened keyhole. Careful not to bump his skin against the hot surface, he slid the key in and twisted it, using the hand sheathed in his oven mitt to push open the door.

He’d half expected some kind of explosion, or at the very least a rush of hot air. Surprisingly, the interior of the TARDIS was cool, the air settling on his skin and drawing gooseflesh out along his forearms. It was so dark he could scarcely see a thing past where the light from his kitchen gave out. Though, logically, he knew this was the Doctor’s TARDIS, he couldn’t help second-guessing himself as he examined what little surroundings were visible. The design was certainly much… busier.

“Doctor?” he spoke into the dark, pulling the oven mitt from his hand and stepping further into the ship. Predictably, there was no reply. He looked down at the console when he approached it, and couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Gone were the sleek panels of neatly arranged buttons, levers, and screens. The controls, though some still looked like advanced equipment, were a mess of bits and bobs - a bicycle pump, an old desk bell, the rotor from an old telephone - some clearly from Earth, others looking as though they’d been picked up from an alien junkyard. It was as though the console had been blown up and then reconstructed with anything that could fill the space. He traced his fingertips along the lower rim of the controls, almost coral-like in its texture, as he continued his circuit of the console.

“Doc-“ he paused in his call when his boot collided with a heap of something on the floor. Frowning, he nudged it again with his foot, squinting in a useless attempt to see in the dark. Quite suddenly, it registered to him that he was treading on a motionless arm. “Doris!” her footsteps came clattering up the entrance ramp the moment he called for her. He crouched down, running his hands over the arm to confirm his suspicions, then following it’s contours up until his hand found the bare skin of a neck. It took a moment of feeling around for him to locate a pulse, but when he did, he nearly whooped with joy. Nearly.

“Have you found him? I can’t see a bloody thing.” Her voice shook.

“There’s a pulse," he practically rejoiced, "four beats, all strong. Here now, let’s get him out.” 

“You expect to drag a grown man with that hip of yours?” He couldn’t see Doris’ eyebrow, but he knew the arch had to be significant.

“I’ll manage. If I need to take a break, I will.” Together, they each grabbed an arm, pulling the Doctor’s dead weight along the floor and down the ramp, stopping when they reached the doors. “There’s rubble all over the floor. Sit with him, I’ll get a broom.”

Doris leaned down warily, brushing a worried hand along the Doctor’s unfamiliar face. He had quite prominent features, his look a bit rougher than it was when last she saw him, all curly hair and gentle smiles. His skin was clean, a stark contrast to his clothing, which was so bloodied and muddied that she could hardly tell what color his shirt used to be. The material was still a bit damp to the touch, and she briefly lifted his shirt and felt along his bloodier leg to check for injuries, but found none. It was likely he’d only just regenerated, which was promising for his physical health but not so much his mental state. She expected he’d be quite shaken when he awoke; it dreaded her to think what possibly could have happened to him.

“Alright.” Alastair reentered the kitchen, armed with a large broom. “I’ll clear a path so we can get him out without wounding him all over again. Let’s put him in Kate’s room, it’s closest and I don’t fancy dragging him up any stairs.”

After he’d cleared a sufficient trail through the mess, Alastair set the broom aside and rejoined his wife by the TARDIS doors. They resumed their careful dragging, pulling him out of the kitchen and down the hall to their daughter’s old bedroom, only stopping once to give Alastair’s hip a rest.

“Okay, ready? On three.” Doris moved to grab the Doctor’s knees and they lifted him up onto the bed.

“Blimey, he’s not a small bloke, is he.” Doris sniffed, huffing and rubbing at her shoulder. “I’ll go get something to change him into. He looks a right mess.” She disappeared up the stairs just as Alastair heard a call from the kitchen.

“Brigadier?” He left Kate’s room in time to see a tall woman peering around the kitchen doorframe. She straightened when she saw him, shaking her sandy fringe out of her eyes. “Hello, sir. Hope you don’t mind if we came right in. The wall was open.” 

He grinned, approaching her to shake her hand. “Not at all, Agent…?” 

“Kessel, sir. My team and I were out to lunch when we were alerted of your, uh… situation.” Right on cue, two others stepped into view - a tall, brawny asian man in a cargo jacket and a significantly smaller woman in a pleasant-looking floral hijab. “These are agents Tsai and Boulos. My other three went back to base.” Both agents hurriedly saluted him.

Alastair dutifully returned the salutes. “You were told, I expect, who and what you’re dealing with?” All three agents nodded. “First of all, the Doctor is relatively unharmed, so put yourselves at ease. I’ve called for Dr. Paulson to come give him a look over. In the mean time, I’d like to shift his TARDIS to a more practical space. I’m afraid your presence here is little more than non-disclosable labor.” He smiled apologetically, and Kessel waved him off.

“Not to worry, sir. We were in the neighborhood.” She grinned and pulled out a pair of thick, dark gloves, and her team members followed suite. He hoped they were good enough to stave off the heat from the TARDIS.

“Where would you like it moved to, sir?” Agent Boulos asked, tugging on the edge of her glove.

Alastair gestured over his shoulder. “There’s a study at the end of this hallway. It’ll do fine tucked away in there. Probably ruin the carpet, but that’s the least of my worries at the moment.”

Doris emerged when the team was halfway down the hallway with the TARDIS, and they politely declined her offer of tea. After the TARDIS was situated in the back study, the team said their goodbyes, using the door this time and wishing Doris and Alastair good luck on their kitchen repairs. The group passed Dr. Paulson on their way out, exchanging a few pleasantries before going on their way.

“Right then, Brigadier, where can I find my patient?” Dr. Paulson held up a metal briefcase, clearly intending to get down to business. He was a respectable man whom Alastair had dealt with a few times before retirement, just barely to his mid-thirties with a remarkable reputation and a kind disposition. He’d been a field doctor for several years, but had been forced exclusively into the lab after an unfriendly alien encounter left him without a leg. He’d adjusted well to his new position and to his high-tech prosthetic, showing evidence of both as he eagerly rushed down the hallway to the room where the Doctor lay unconscious.

Alastair gave his friend a long, worried look before nodding to Paulson. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He rubbed nervously at the top of his cane as he made his way back to the sitting room. Doris sat on the edge of the couch, and reached out a hand for him as he approached.

“What could have happened to have him and his TARDIS both looking like that?” She chewed nervously on her lip, before casting worried brown eyes his way.

He blew out a long breath before reaching up to brush her chin with his thumb. “Last I spoke to him, he’d been called home. From what he told me, it sounded as though his people were in some sort of cold war with Daleks.” He frowned. “You know, most time I ever went without seeing him was two years. Now he shows up, more than twelve later, looking like he flew that box through hell and back riding on top. I’ve wondered about him, of course. At the very least I thought maybe he'd aimed late by accident. Expected him show up on me in the old folks' home spewing excuses. Then I thought maybe he was just busy, too much on his plate to help us fight our battles back here. It didn’t truly occur to me that he was off fighting a much bigger one of his own.”

Doris chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “It's hard to imagine the Doctor fighting in a war.”

“Impossible to imagine.” Alastair said softly. “That’s precisely why I didn’t.”

For the second time that afternoon, they were interrupted by a sudden crash - not nearly as loud as the first, but more than loud enough to cause them alarm. They both shot off the sofa, Alastair nearly forgetting his cane in his haste. In a few moments they were outside the door to Kate’s room, frantically trying to locate the source of the commotion.

It didn’t take long to do so. The Doctor was awake, and had Dr. Paulson pinned to the window, elbow tightly pressed into his throat. At some point, both the bedside table and the lamp upon it had been broken, and the window to which Paulson was pinned was shot through with cracks.

“DOCTOR!” Alistair roared, throwing himself across the room to pull the Time Lord away from Paulson, whose eyes were beginning to roll back in his head. At the sound of Alastair’s voice, the Doctor whipped around, throwing Alastair’s hands away from him. Paulson slid down to the floor behind them, coughing violently. 

Alastair found himself more genuinely frightened than he’d been in years. He’d fallen back onto the bed when the Doctor had shoved him off, and sat as still as he could under his friend’s unfamiliar gaze. The alien - and never before had he so surely thought of the Doctor as such - looked down at him with wild blue eyes, arms aloft, chest heaving beneath his bloodied shirt. He’d never once seen a display of violence from the Doctor, and it wasn’t something he ever wanted to look on again.

The men stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment. Alastair could hear Doris’s panicked breathing from her position in the doorway, and prayed to whatever would hear him that this volatile and disoriented version of his friend would not try to escape that way and hurt Doris in the process.

The longer he held the other man’s look, the less worried he became. Slowly, so slowly, he saw recognition ease its way across the Doctor’s new face. It began in his jaw, the tightened, gritted set slowly loosening and spreading up to his brow. The angry lines on his forehead steadily shifted, becoming something different that Alastair wasn’t sure of until he saw it the Doctor’s eyes. Horror. Cold, unforgiving horror.

The Doctor stumbled back, nearly stepping on Dr. Paulson as his back collided with the wall. His breathing grew erratic and labored as his eyes darted frantically about the room - the ceiling, the broken lamp, Doris, Alastair, the desk mirror, and back to Alastair again. Sensing the Doctor’s distraction, Paulson took his opportunity to scramble out of the room, still coughing on his way out.

“Doris.” Alastair said quietly, keeping his eyes on where the Doctor remained frozen against the wall. “Would you go see if Dr. Paulson is alright, please?” He heard the door gently click shut, and her muffled footsteps moving away down the hall.

For a heavy moment, the Doctor’s shallow breaths were the only noise in the room.

“Doctor?” Alastair tried again, still quiet, but more firmly this time. 

A beat.

“Do you know who I am?” At this, the Doctor’s eyes snapped back up from where they’d unfocused. He swallowed.

“Alastair.” He spoke in a scratchy whisper, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. “Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.”

“Yes.” The corner of Alastair’s mouth tugged up slightly, just for a moment - but they were far from out of the woods yet. “Do you know who you are?”

The Doctor’s jaw clenched up, perhaps tighter than it had been before, his blue eyes suddenly shining with tears. He began to shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut and curling his fingers into fists. 

“No.”


End file.
